


Bedroom Hymns (EV)

by Srtawalker



Category: The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: M/M, Sex, if you try hard enough sex can be a wedding ceremony, this could be considered blasphemy so beware
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:33:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25731409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Srtawalker/pseuds/Srtawalker
Summary: Nicolò and Yusuf visit Genova in 1189 and Nicolò discovers what God really wants from him.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 29
Kudos: 216





	Bedroom Hymns (EV)

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Bedroom Hymns](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25729834) by [Srtawalker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Srtawalker/pseuds/Srtawalker). 



> I want to warn that this started because I heard "Bedroom Hymns" by Florence + The Machine and I wanted very blasphemous sex from Nicky and Joe to go with the song... But I started writing and as always it got out of hand and I have finished with Nicky's crisis of faith and what I'm giving you

_"It was a religious experience for me. I went to my knees and I took him into my mouth like I was taking the Holy Communion." - Sense8_

Nicolò could still hear the screams of the men chasing them, but he didn't look back. He continued to run, knowing that Yusuf was following him, trying to remember the quickest path to the outskirts of the city. He shouldn't have listened to Yusuf, he should have never returned to Genoa.

It was true that he had missed his city, that he had never been able to say goodbye to it as he had wanted when he had left almost a hundred years before for Jerusalem. Back then he had taken a last look at his home, the port, the beautiful houses, the color and life that surrounded him. He had prayed to God that it would allow him to see the beautiful city once more, even knowing that he would most certainly die recovering the Holy Land from the infidels.

It had been that longing, the way he had told him stories of his childhood, of plans for the construction of a cathedral he would never see, that had made the saracen insist that they return. Yusuf had never been to Genoa, but had heard of its beauty from other merchants. He did not want to miss the opportunity to discover it with his love, and he had said so.

_‘It isn’t safe.’ Nicolò refuted, kneeling down in front of his possessions and putting away the small wooden cross. He turned to Yusuf, whose skin was slightly darker from the long weeks they had spent in the desert before reaching Tripoli._

_‘Almost a hundred years have passed. There is no one alive who can remember you.’_

_Those words hurt less than Nicolò would have thought. He had not seen his family again since joining the crusade and, although he had missed them, their absence had not been so painful, accepting their death after so many decades was natural._

_He had never had a close relationship with his father, since he was the youngest of three brothers. His mother had been the one who had transmitted his faith to him, the one who had taught him the importance of helping others, the one who had brought him to the monastery when he was only fifteen years old, leaving him in the service of God. His older brother, the heir to the small but beautiful family villa, had discovered his love of literature, his other brother the use of the sword. Nicolò returned his gaze to his weapon, leaning against the wall, remembering the few but valuable lessons of it._

_‘You will not go unnoticed.’ Because he knew that although it was a port city, a saracen would stand out, especially in recent years._

_‘You can go.’ Yusuf's voice charged with an affection to which Nicolò had not yet become accustomed to. ‘I can wait for you here.’_

_Nicolò turned to him with open eyes, not believing that the man was proposing topart ways. He got up, heading to the bowl and washing his face, trying to think. It didn't take long for him to notice Yusuf's hand against his hip, the warmth of his body against his back._

_‘I thought you wanted to go back.’ He whispered against his neck, before kissing him, making Nicolò close his eyes, losing himself for a few seconds in the pleasure that said gesture produced in him, in how loved he felt._

_'I want to.' It was the truth. ‘But not without you.’_

_Yusuf turned him, and Nicolò couldn't help but lose himself in his dark eyes like so many other times. The passion he saw in them had not subsided in those few decades, and he prayed that it never would, that the man would always look at him as if he were the most wonderful thing he had never seen._

_‘Well, we will go and be careful.’ Nicolò brought his head closer and soon felt Yusuf's forehead against his. He sighed, making a quick prayer to God that it would be so._

They didn’t know of the call for a third crusade until they were on Genoese soil. Too late to turn around, all they had left to do was try to travel north, lose themselves in other kingdoms that had not yet been involved in the holy war.

But Nicolò should have known that it was not necessary to return to Jerusalem to find hatred in the hearts of men, especially in which he still considered his people. It was a taught hatred, instilled in the heart of men after decades of doctrine, one of which he had needed to die numerous times at the hands of his enemy to realize that they were both equal in God's eyes. But it was not until months later, traveling with the strange saracen then turned into an ally of need, when he had begun to discover how deluded they had been. Muslims loved God as much as they did, a god who, according to Yusuf, was the same. They had different languages, different customs, different appearances, but they were not inferior or deserving of the death the Pope preached.

_Nicoló had taken longer than he would have liked to assume his feelings, accept them and realize that if God had united them it was for a reason, that their bond could not be anything other than sacred. That moment had been one of absolute clarity, as if God had finally given him that sign that he had asked all his life in his prayers. He had seen Yusuf come out of the river after washing the blood of the bandits who had tried to rob them along the way. The great wound on his torso healed, his skin dripping, the sun illuminating him as if it were an angel. His strong arms, his generous smile, his eyes loaded with that emotion that Nicolò had tried not to see, to ignore, but which was so blinding at the moment that he could only lose himself in it, be consumed in it._

_He approached him, releasing his sword, causing it to fall into the sand surrounding the small oasis. He watched as Yusuf stood a few inches from him, clearly translating some comforting phrase, or some joke, in his mind. Yusuf Al-Kaysani was a man of words. Nicolò di Genova was a man of action. He brought his hand to his neck, wanting to caress his beard, remove the few drops that were still there. Yusuf didn’t move, and Nicolò looked into his eyes, seeing the sun behind him, the halo that enveloped him, the love in the eyes of the Muslim. It was a divine, sacred image. Something so pure could not be a sin, something that filled him with a love so big, unimaginable._

_He kissed him, and he understood how Adam and Eva felt when they first joined. He clung closer to him, needing to feel him close, to make him see with actions, because he didn’t know the words, what he felt, the purity of the moment. Yusuf grabbed his waist, drawing him in and making his robes wet, releasing a heavenly moan from his lips. Nicolò allowed himself to be undressed and both soon found themselves naked in the water, their bodies pressed together, Yusuf's lips on his neck, his hand on his member, the name of God in Nicolò's sighs._

They reached a dead end, the wall too high to jump over without the help of the other. Nicolò turned, seeing how the men were about to hunt them down.

‘Yusuf! ’ He yelled, trying to get his attention. He turned, looking at Nicolò's outstretched hand. His beloved's hand grasping the hilt of his scimitar, confusion in his eyes, one that took a few seconds to come to understanding. He joined him and Nicolò unsheathed his sword, awaiting the arrival of the four men.

He had never killed another Catholic, it was all he could think of when he saw the soldiers come in and smile, seeing them cornered. He had never killed a compatriot, another Genoese, but he would kill whoever stood between him and Yusuf.

'Give us the infidel and we will let you live.'

Nicolò knew it was a lie, all his years as a priest had made him see the truth in the eyes of men and the absence of it. Still, that didn't change anything.

‘If you want him, come and get him.’

The first to speak was the bravest, and the first to die, his head severed from his shoulders by Nicolò's long blade. The rest were not long in joining their boss, blood marking the road, dyeing it black thanks to the moonlight. Nicolò couldn't help but look at the first man, wondering the reason for his hatred, his death. He heard Yusuf calling him and turned to him, casting one last prayer to God for the souls of these men, that they would find more understanding in death than in life.

They took refuge in a small church on the outskirts of Genoa. Abandoned not long ago by the dust that had settled on it. It was then, when Nicolò had made sure that nobody was following them, when he dropped against the column, breathing heavily and letting the cold stone calm his nervous hands.

‘Nicolò?’ Yusuf asked after what could be minutes or hours, kneeling before him.

Nicolò looked up, trying to find that peace he always saw in his beloved's eyes. His thoughts were too erratic, too dangerous.

‘What are you worried about, my life?’ Yusuf asked in Arabic.

How to explain to Yusuf the anger he felt, the rage that consumed him knowing that almost a hundred years later nothing had changed? His people continued to be blinded by hatred of all that was unknown, ignoring the teachings of Christ and using God for their own benefit. He had been in Jerusalem when the city had burned, he had seen the streets filled with blood, more rivers than roads, the cruelty, the slaughter forgiven for being a holy cause. But Nicolò could not believe that God wanted something like that, not after meeting Yusuf, after learning about his culture, his religion, the life that was in him. The people who had educated his love could not be evil.

He looked up and saw the large cross at the end of the central nave, the small stained glass windows letting in the moonlight, marking a point on the broken stone altar. He didn't know what to do. He didn’t understand what task God had assigned him with his immortality. What was the use of living forever if you were not able to prevent the mistake of the past to occur again?

‘Nicolò.’ Yusuf's voice was firm but affectionate. The hand on his face brought him back to the present.

'Forgive me.'

Yusuf shook his head. 'There is nothing to forgive.'

Nicolò brought his hand to Yusuf's hand, taking it and kissing it. Making sure he was safe. He remembered that soldier's eyes, the hatred in his words. He did not regret killing him and hoped that God could forgive him for it.

'We should make a fire,' Yusuf commented. ‘Depart at dawn.’

Nicolò got up, going by inertia to the wooden trunk where he knew he would find what was left of incense and other utensils for the maintenance of the church. He couldn't help but stroke the remains of myrrh, putting his fingers to his nose and breathing in the familiar fragrance. Now it seemed like another life.

He took oil and the stones to light and went to the center of the crossing. Yusuf had an old wooden chair in his hands and showed it to him, waiting for his approval before breaking it. Nicolò smiled, grateful for his respect, and nodded.

It was not until later, when they had eaten the dried meat they carried in their bags, that Yusuf spoke.

'Do you want to go?'

Nicolò looked at him in surprise, knowing what he was referring to but not being able to imagine the reason for that question. He would still have centuries to get to know every corner of Yusuf's mind perfectly.

'No. It’s not my war.’

‘But it's your people, your faith.’ His firm voice, no doubt Yusuf had been thinking about it since he had discovered the news.

'And you? Do you want to go? Protect Jerusalem?’ Nicolò stood up, looking at him seriously. ‘It’s my people who are trying to slaughter yours again, to steal the land that belongs to you by right.’ He walked away, turning his gaze to the cross, looking for a peace in it that he knew he would not find. He walked slowly toward the altar, climbing the few steps that separated him from it. ‘I would understand if you wanted to go.’ He touched the stone, seeing how his fingers left a mark in the dust.

He felt Yusuf's hands on his back, carefully lowering them, resting on his hips. ‘I think we should both go back.’ He kissed his head and Nicolò couldn't help but lean against him, losing himself in his warmth and firmness. ‘I think you need it. And I think my faith demands it of me. ’

Nicolò looked at the cross again, asking for clarity, a purpose, some guidance. Yusuf turned him, propping him up against the altar. There was passion in his eyes, one he had never seen before.

‘You killed those Christians for me.’ His deep voice, more whisper than confession.

‘They wanted to kill you.’

‘You know they wouldn't have. That I would have survived. ’

Nicolò raised his hands, resting one on Yusuf's heart and the other on his neck, caressing the beard's birth.

‘It was not an option. Your death is never an option. ’

Yusuf approached and Nicolò wanted him to kiss him. Something inside him needed it, even though he knew it was wrong, that they shouldn't in a sacred place like the one they were in. But Yusuf stuck their foreheads, making them breathe the same air, and that gesture was more intimate than any kiss.

‘I cannot pretend to understand what you feel, or the doubts you now have about your religion and faith. But I know that Allah created you for me, just as He created me for you. I know where you go, I will go. That my duty in this life is to love you.' He separated himself slightly from him, fixing their eyes, making Nicolò see in them the truth of his words, the certainty. ‘I think there is infinite goodness in you. That your God created you to help and not destroy. And I don't mean to hurt, but I think you should stop being guided by the beliefs of the men of your faith who say they know the will of God, and do what you know in your heart that is what He wants from you.’

Nicolò could not avoid the tears in his eyes, the small moan that he released when he noticed how the words of his beloved dissolved those doubts from his chest and mind. The moon appeared again, illuminating Yusuf for a moment and Nicolò thought: "Here is my divine sign."

He kissed him, sure in his love, in the blessing of God, on the road ahead. He lost himself in Yusuf's mouth, grabbing his robe to push him against him, since he needed him closer, as close as possible. He had banished the idea of getting married by becoming a priest, but it was now when he saw that God had other plans for him, that he had been preparing him for this moment.

He felt Yusuf's hands lean on the altar, his crotch brushing against his, making both of them groan, breaking their kiss.

'We shouldn't,' Yusuf said in Arabic. 'Not here.'

Nicolò separated from him and turned them, placing him against the altar, with the wooden cross in the background, the stained glass window with the moon on top. He knew that this was the definitive proof, that all those decades of knowing Yusuf, of loving him, of wondering if he did the right thing, of seeking peace in his prayers were culminating there. It was now when he would find out if Yusuf was right and God had created them to love each other, or if the Pope was truly aware of the will of God.

‘I love you, Yusuf Al-Kaysani. I love you in such a way that I don't know how to describe it with words.' He brought his right hand to the Muslim's hair, caressing it and guiding his head to a kiss, short but passionate. ‘And before God I swear to love you until the end of my days, I swear to be the man you see in me.’

It was then that he saw understanding in Yusuf's eyes, understanding that they were not mere words, but votes. ‘Allah is my witness, Nicolò di Genova, that my love for you is eternal, without restrictions or expectations.’

Nicolò kissed him, closing the pact, knowing in his entire being that he was doing the right thing. He didn't know why they were both still alive, what paths God had provided for them, but he was going to start by correcting the mistakes of the past. He kissed Yusuf's neck, lowered his hands to his belt and unbuttoned it. Yusuf was right, they had to go back to Jerusalem, they had to do everything possible to prevent another massacre. It didn't take him long to reach into his underclothes, noticing the hardness, the moan against his ear. This time it would be different, this time he would fight for what he thought was right.

‘Nicolò.’ Yusuf sighed, bringing him back to reality, making him notice his desire by rubbing his crotch against the man's hand.

Nicolò did not hesitate to get down on his knees and look up. He had lost count of the times he had knelt down before an altar, before the cross, before God. He could still remember what he felt when he took the body of Christ the first time, the excitement and respect. The adoration. At that time he thought that he could never be more in communion with God than at that moment, that there was no more sacred act. He did not look away from Yusuf while he opened his tights, appeasing the suspicion that he saw in his eyes, trying to make him see that his vows were not mere words.

He took him in his mouth and it was a religious experience. He closed his eyes, losing himself in his pleasure, in the sensation of fullness. It was a familiar act but at the same time it was like it was the first time. He moved, letting his body speak for him, opening his eyes and seeing how Yusuf had leaned his hands against the altar, how the cross stood behind him, the moon skirted his curls like a halo. He did not know how much time he spent like this, on his knees before Yusuf and God, venerating both. He felt his hand grasp his locks, warning him, but Nicolò did not stop moving, swallowing his seed as he had drunk the blood of Christ years ago.

He stood there for a few minutes, on his knees, losing himself in the face of his beloved, in the love he felt in the sacrament of their union. He would never recognize it out loud, but it was then that he felt clarity for the first time in his already long life, when he understood the purpose of the blessing of his immortality

**Author's Note:**

> If someone wants The extreme sex in the church that I had in mind at the time, tell me and I will write it.


End file.
